Truth or Dare: The Imperial Court

[madame_de_fer]

WHO: Select Orlesian and Fereldan Nobility and the Inquisition
WHAT: Josephine and Vivienne have orchestrated a good-will soiree in response to this dastardly rumor.
WHEN: Drakonis 15, Evening
WHERE: Skyhold Great Hall
NOTES:
- A list of nobles in attendance can be found here. The list was provided by the mods but there will be no npc support for them. Play away.
- A secondary outside party is being held in the valley in the tent town for anyone who couldn't/wouldn't attend and/or behave in the fancy pansty party.
- The goal of the evening is to clear up a spurious rumor about Cassandra and Leliana, with secondary goals of establishing the Inquisition as a respectable presence in Thedas (and fish for more money). Any major disruptions that would Game Over the court approval should probably be brought to the advisors and/or mods.



To say that Josphine has far outdone herself with this little soiree would be the understatement of the year. The Lady Ambassador has pulled out all the stops in providing a festive and yet elegant stage for this political intervention. Because sometimes gossip can be more deadly than a sword.

The Great Hall of Skyhold has been converted into a grand receiving hall, glittering with hundreds of lights around the room, in addition to the repairs accomplished to the original chandeliers. Of course, there has been artful placement arranged so there are a few shadowy corners for rendezvous of the more suggestive nature. Just in case. The majority of the floor has been cleared for dancing, and a fine troupe of musicians have been installed for the bulk of the evening's entertainments. Some members of the Inquisition have plans to entice attendees with their own artistic performances in addition to the group of mages performing illusory tricks to oohs and aahs.

For those who feel their energy flagging, there are chairs set against the walls, with a few tables interspersed between. Servers hired for the evening circulate the crowds with wine, fine Orlesian and Nevarran reds as well as crisp whites from Antiva. Refreshments are set out on buffet tables, tasteful and extravagant nibbles, including imported cheeses, spicy saucisson, dried fruits and nuts, and the highly sought after deep mushroom and anise petits fours that are all the rage in Orlais.

Comments

open, interrupt whenever, it's just one big wildcard.

[byblow]

Three things that are true in every diverging timeline where he isn't dead: Alistair is not a diplomat, Alistair has no patience for fanfare, and Alistair does not like Orlesian nobility.

He does make a few attempts at impressing people, mostly for the sake of others. For starters, he's nice enough not to show up in full armor after all, pulling together some last-minute articles of clothing—mostly leather, mostly brown—at least befitting of a Ferelden noble's orphan ward, if not an actual Ferelden noble. He is cheerfully and awkwardly charming long enough to introduce a few people with less brand recognition to various masked entities, then slips away and leaves them to their fates, you're welcome. The third time he's asked about Jonas he manages to sound like he doesn't want to leap off the battlements. Barely, but. He manages. He says nice things about the Inquisition and its aid to the Wardens. He lets a young lady feel his bicep.

But in between those good moments, he is only barely behaving, aloof in a good-humored but tired and skeptical way that suggests he's either (a) above all of this or (b) perfectly comfortable being beneath it, and in either case perpetually restraining himself from causing trouble. He makes faces from behind the nobles' backs—subtle ones, a moment of crossed eyes or wrinkled nose or a pull of his mouth to say yikes—while people he knows are attempting to have serious conversations with them. He downs a couple of drinks in single long swallows. Few invitations to dance are turned down outright, but his ability not to accidentally trample his partner's feet mysteriously correlates to how much he likes them.

Later in the evening, one of the lesser Orlesians corners him to attempt to bond over their apparent shared taste in elves. The word supple comes is used. Alistair's already-pasted-on smile freezes, sharpens, and darkens in a way that should—hopefully—set off warning bells in onlookers in time for someone to step in before he opens his mouth.

Not long after that, while the party is still in progress, he'll vanish. He'll check on Pel first—he's that much of a gentleman—but this is really, really not his sort of thing.

[serannas]

Alistair is like the child who shouldn't have been dragged to the big people's party and is going to make his parent regret this. Ellana recognizes this as she tries to steer a noble away from a discussion on her ears and spots Alistair over the woman's shoulder, crossing his eyes. Alistair, Ellana is trying to be aloof here. What even.

But when later in the evening she comes across him alone, back turned to her, she can't help coming up behind and putting on a terrible Orlesian accent.

"Oo eez thees? Can it be zee Alistair? Oo 'elped zee 'ero of Ferelden?"

[byblow]

The accent is fake enough that Alistair, with his famously sharp mind and/or, you know, ten years' experience living in actual Orlais and listening to actual Orlesian accents, knows it can't be a real Orlesian. But it's also enough to obscure Ellana's identity until he's turned around to look at her.

There's a second of visible relief that it's her before his whole body slants: cocked eyebrow, one shoulder dropped above his crossing arms. "Careful. I'm very close to snapping."

[serannas]

She won't blame him if he does snap, since his antics tonight have shown this isn't a place he enjoys being at all. But she doesn't want him snapping at her, so she lifts her hand where she holds a tiny cake between her fingers and cocks an eyebrow right back.

"A peace offering, then? I swear it's not mushroom and anise flavored."

[onlyhymns]

At some point, Alistair might meet eyes with Cade, who may or may not be watching him longingly from his less populated corner of the hall. Of course Cade looks away immediately, rubs the back of his neck or fidgets in some other way; he isn't sure where they stand as friends, but he can't help but admire Alistair's ability to take any situation and make it his own.

It's an oddly, distantly familiar feeling, standing off in the sidelines while Alistair works his magic-- or at least what Cade interprets as magic. Except back then, his friend presumably didn't see him as a violent maniac. How times have changed.

[byblow]

That's so sad.

It's sad enough that Alistair—who is angry with him, in a pitying and bewildered way—takes additional pity and weaves his way through the crowd to Cade's side. The world is cruel enough for making Alistair be here. Making Cade be here is a step too far.

"Should have saved your violent outburst for this," Alistair says. So that would be a no on any instant forgiving or forgetting. "I think it would be an improvement."

[onlyhymns]

Although Cade does, on some level, want to talk to Alistair, he is also never fully prepared for the newest addition to tonight's endless parade of comments, jabs, and icy looks. Having taken a deep breath on the warden's approach, he seems to deflate the instant the man speaks, and just shakes his head despondently in reply. He doesn't want to have saved it for anything.
Instead, after several moments of agitated silence, and in the presence of the only person in his entire life he has ever called a friend, he reaches something of a breaking point. "I could have killed her," he says, quietly but brokenly. "I don't want to. I..." Looking abashedly downwards, he leans back against the wall, restlessly drumming his fingertips on the stones behind him. "I hate what happened. I hate that... this is..." he looks quickly around, but not at Alistair, "...how things are."

[fleurdesel]

If there is one thing Adelaide knows with a bone deep certainty, it is the subtle tension behind the eyes of a trouble maker about to lose their patience and do just that- make trouble. Anyone else and she wouldn't think twice about sweeping in and settling it with a pointed remark or alternative means of conversation. But this is Alistair and their dislike is not only well known, it's apparently some manner of infamous putting her in the like company of Morrigan and a precious few others that haven't found the man's boorish manners endearing.

For a moment she considers leaving him to his fate. But- only a moment. This is bigger than her distaste for him. Thus she sweeps in, white silk and glittering ice to curl her arm around his, hand resting oh so lightly upon his bicep. "Pardon me, gentlemen." She flashes a smile that is kind and on the appropriate side of friendly. "Warden Alistair- might I trouble you for a dance?"

[byblow]

For a second Alistair only stares at her, mouth still open in preparation to answer Inane Yet Painful Question Number Twenty-Seven. He needs that second to weigh continuing this conversation against dancing with Adelaide. Which is worse, which is worse...

He doesn't actually come to a decision. He only realizes that saying no might make him look rude and ruin the entire point of enduring this conversation in the first place. And he can probably escape Adelaide much quicker. She already thinks he's rude.

"Of course," he says, and manages one last burst of indulgence for the noble. Enough to smile and nod his head in a vaguely bow-like way before stepping away with Adelaide and murmuring, "What's gotten into you?" It doesn't occur to him that he's being rescued.

[fleurdesel]

He chose wisely- the dance will only last as long as it takes to cart Alistair to the exact opposite end of the hall- providing distance from the noble in question and hopefully, more questions of the same. "Common sense and a distinct desire to not have the nobility wondering why we let a drooling, dim witted Fereldan wander about saying whatever comes to mind. Whatever you were going to say? Would have left them with that impression. Your Wardens have done enough damage."

As though they are speaking of the weather her voice is light, friendly- almost. In so much that she can be as such to Alistair, which isn't terribly. She does not so much wait for him to settle in position as she does arrange his hands as needed and settle into the steady waltz. "I would not have you continue to do so."

[ombranera]

Now this- this is a problem. That is the look of Alistair being baited and Zevran? Does not care to let his brother flounder. One unfortunate incident with an Orlesian they can probably sweep under the rug- but when speaking so easily over supple elf flesh? That will not end in an argument, but blows.

"There you are, darling." Zevran slinks out of the shadows easily to insinuate himself along Alistair's side, all sweet smiles and tender affection. It is as much warning as Alistair is given before Zevran leans up on his toes to press the most gentle of kisses to his cheek, arm winding about his waist to rest precariously low on his hip. "I was wondering where you ran off too- it has been so lonely with you hiding along the wall."

[byblow]

Alistair's immediate, startled reaction is a glare: how dare Zevran interrupt when he's about to put a fist through the teeth of someone who really deserves it, and, also, what in the Maker's name is he doing with his face? It's sweet, and—

He catches up while his cheek is being kissed. If the dissipation of his scowl makes him look like his temper has been soothed by a lover's affection, then good. Let the man think it's the only reason he's keeping his teeth. That's not entirely inaccurate.

"I'm sorry," he says. He's not much of an actor, but he doesn't need to be. Nothing fake about his slightly chastised (but still stormy) smile or the arm he lifts to put a hand on Zevran's shoulder. "Comte Daucort here was just telling me—" He could try to be polite and smooth, or. "—way too much about his proclivities."

The Comte is that particular, shameless brand of creepy that allows him to smile blandly rather than display any remorse. He displays something else, though, maybe, the way he glances over Zevran. "Fereldans are so particular about what they consider appropriate," he says, "it can be difficult to keep up."

[ombranera]

"Oh, was he now?" Zevran lists into Alistair's side, tucked up like he belongs there. For the moment and for as long as Alistair is willing to let him get away with such gestures, he is. "Orlesians are so open about their desires and so coy with their faces."

Light, honeyed, easy.

"It does make one wonder if, perhaps, they have more and less to hide than the rest of us." Zevran knows a man with secrets when he sees it- this Comte marked by a flick of his gaze and put to memory for more...pointed words later. "But perhaps if you find it difficult to keep up, my dear Comte, you are out of practice, yes?"

Orlesian Jackass Rescue

[mythalenaste]

"Ser Alistair's taste is for good conversation and company," Pel says, suddenly present, walking unhurriedly toward her friend with a pleasant smile. She lightly places her hand on his elbow as if claiming him. "Were his taste for elves, it is unlikely he would find himself in their willing company. But I must steal him for a dance. Pardon."

Her grip on Alistair tightens and she tugs him away.

[byblow]

He resists. Not much; he stands his ground against her tugging for two or three second at most, then drags his feet for a few paces before he's fully turned to let the Comte out of his line of sight. It's only then that he softens any, though not much. He still looks furious, on the whole, and it only fades enough when he glances down at Pel to make it clear she's not the target.

"I could take him," he says. It's partly a joke, but only partly.

latest

[mythalenaste]

"I know." She gives his elbow a reassuring squeeze. Instead of leading him to the dance floor, she leads him toward the base of the library tower. It'll be less crowded outside there, on the walkway, than it is in the garden. They can get some air out there.

"I could have let you punch him," she adds once they're out and alone. "But his face isn't worthy of bruising your knuckles."

[rebelenchanter]

While it was true enough that they'd both been in Skyhold for quite some time now, this shared space, there was enough of it to ensure there was no contact between them. It was simple enough, Alistair had his Grey Warden responsibilities and Fiona had her own as the one-time Grand Enchanter. Then there was the Inquisition itself and the various missions, it was enough to keep anyone busy. It was enough to ensure that she wouldn't be tempted to get too close.

Even if she wanted to.

The more she observed, however, the more she wanted to--and it was a party after all, it wasn't suspicious. Duncan had written to her many times, he spoke of how Alistair looked more like Maric, not a bad thing, and they did share some characteristics. Fiona might almost have said that there was very little of her to be seen in him, but then he started pulling faces behind the backs of nobles and there she was! And how could she not talk to him, even for a moment.

"I used to do that sort of thing as well," she said, discreetly, after he pulled a particularly amusing expression, "except I did it to my teachers."

[byblow]

"Not too late to start up again," Alistair says brightly, still pleased with himself and his target's struggle to maintain a straight face, before he's properly turned to look at whoever is addressing him. When he does look it takes him a moment to place her: there's a squint, then raised eyebrows like oh, and finally a smile. "Or I suppose it might be. You probably have to be on your best behavior for a while."

A while. Years. He's full in favor of mages having their freedom and all of that, but he's heard—through the grapevine, no direct word—that the Queen and Teagan weren't particularly pleased with what happened in Redcliffe. The Inquisition probably wasn't, either.

"I won't tell anyone if you aren't, though."

[rebelenchanter]

Fiona wasn't so shortsighted that she did not have any regrets at all--Redcliffe, Alexius, a moment of weakness--she had those and she knew that there were plenty of people that placed the full weight of it on her. She preferred it that way, if they were looking at her then that hardship fell on Fiona instead of them.

"As much as I might like that, I find myself standing firmly on the meridian of tolerance," tolerance being the lowest form of acceptance, like someone tolerates an enduring illness, "though it's nice to know I can count on someone not to tell on me if I need to let go every now and then."

She glanced down at her hands, threading her fingers together was an engrossing task apparently, before glancing back up, "there is something to be said about living vicariously."

[slipshot]

He manages to catch a glance of Alistair's face unguarded and looking particularly sceptical, and he steps over. Gavin himself is far more subdued than usual, a droop to his ears that belies the smile he tries to offer.

"Has anyone tried pinching your bottom, yet? Or is that just left to the elves."

[byblow]

"No one would dare," Alistair says. This is not true. Some would dare. But he's still looking out at the crowd with his arms crossed and a look just on the friendly side of a glare, and he doesn't want anyone to hear and get any ideas. They've all been warned, now, if they're within earshot. He glances down at Gavin, and his eyes catch on his drooping ears for a moment before he turns to face him fully and offer a smile. No one is allowed to be miserable here except him. "Maybe it's just left to you. If I weren't Pel's escort and Beleth's true love, you'd have to watch out for me, too."

That is not really true, either, but come on. Perk up.

[slipshot]

"I'll be careful, then. I have no inclination to have to endure either of their wrath's, today, though I am curious as to when Beleth made that declaration." He was trying to be cheerful, Alistair, he really was.

"Have you had a dance with Zevran, yet? Or would that break all your elvhen ladies hearts?"

Re: open, interrupt whenever, it's just one big wildcard.

[sunshinethroughgrey]

Oh dear.

Alistair needed some cheering up, then. Well, time to do what Bethany did best in these situations. She slid up to where he was trapped by Lord Harold, who was asking what it was like to kill the archdemon of all things, and tutted softly.

"Lord Harold, surely you know that the more satisfying game is the smaller levels of darkspawn? Why, an ogre alone is a battle worthy of the storybooks. Wouldn't you agree, Alistair?"

And the moment Lord Harold turned his head to Alistair, Bethany made a face of her own behind the Lord's back, wrinkling her nose and sticking out the tip of her tongue, before slipping into a demure expression once more.

[byblow]

A lot of things happen on Alistair's face in quick succession. Relief at Bethany's approach, smirky amusement at her intervention, a look of mild betrayal when she turns the conversation back to him again, and then—it's really not fair, her impeding his ability to keep a straight face like that. He can't keep a straight face even without anyone sticking tongues out at him. It's like pushing over a man on crutches. Not nice at all, Bethany. Not nice at all.

"It's, ah," he says, struggling with his mouth while it twitches. He gives up. He grins. Maybe Lord Harold will think he's very fond of fighting ogres. He isn't, though: "I don't know what I'd go that far. Usually, when you kill a dragon, you can be reasonably sure you won't see another for a while. Ogres keep coming."

"I've never seen either," Lord Harold says. He does have the decency not to sound disappointed about it: most reasonable people are pleased not to have seen dragons or more darkspawn than necessary. Especially Fereldans.

Alistair tips his chin toward Bethany. "There was one in Lothering during the Blight, wasn't there?"

[sunshinethroughgrey]

She is not looking to be that nice, Alistair, she's looking to distract you and your conversation partner so you can have yourself a laugh. In that, she is absolutely the nicest and you are welcome.

She dimples at him, brown eyes bright, before she clears her throat. "And well you shouldn't, Lord Harold. Where there is an ogre, there's typically an entire battalion of darkspawn."

Ah-hah, game on. Alistair knew this story and it was a lengthy one. Her eyes crinkled, before she stated, "Indeed - in fact, that is how my sister first gained her legendary status -- she killed that ogre all on her own."

Lord Harold turned, abruptly, towards her, his eyes wide, "So it is true? You are the Champion's sister?"

"That I am, ser. Would you like to hear the tale?" She asked innocently. Go on, Alistair, do your worst.